


Luck’s Got Nothing to Do With It

by feistymuffin



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Atlantic City, M/M, Mark is Persistent and Annoying but Jack Apparently Likes That, Poker, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:19:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistymuffin/pseuds/feistymuffin
Summary: Jack is a poker player in Atlantic City—a verystraightpoker player. Why can’t this guy just take a hint?





	Luck’s Got Nothing to Do With It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdorabloodthirstyKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/gifts).



> hello again, everyone! it’s been forever and a day, hasn’t it? good grief. I’d like to apologize for being so absent here, life has been throwing a couple of curveballs my way and it’s been less than ideal while I dealt with them. having said that, i have been writing intermittently throughout the time in between posted works, it’s just unfortunately scattered among several unfinished projects. i started this one about a week or so ago and it’s been pretty fun to write. 
> 
> anyway, enjoy! c:
> 
> EDIT 03/14/18: hey folks! as of today i have a Discord server! come hang out !! https://discord.gg/TzDmYsb

The dealer flips the card under his fingertips, baring the six of spades and setting it back down on the table. Without looking at his cards Jack waits for his righthand neighbour to check and taps two fingers onto the table, then waits for his other, chattier neighbour to check. The man to his left is lobbying for his attention as well as the attention of the aging woman on Jack’s other side, decked out in enough designer garb and expensive jewelry to make even his head turn. The man tries to pull them into conversation and the woman, perhaps not knowing any better, is obliging him easily. Jack’s not so easily coffee housed, though, and he’s perfectly content to let his fellow players distract each other.

“Neat trick,” says a stranger’s voice at his elbow, interrupting the man’s flowing fishing soliloquy. 

Jack doesn’t look up but he does glance down at his own errant fingers, flipping a poker chip from his own significant pile dextrously over his knuckles. “Thanks,” he says bluntly, dully, a dismissal. Blessedly the chatty man, well and truly interrupted to a screeching halt, finally acknowledges the game and checks. 

The dealer then flips the next card, the eight of spades. Jack’s focus perks but outwardly he’s stony, immovable as he watches the woman check, and he taps his fingers on the table as well. 

“How d’you do that?” the man behind him asks. 

Jack’s hackles rise irritably and he doesn’t reply, eyes on the table. The man beside him, seeing a gap in conversation, continues, “As I was saying, the boys and I had this fish on the line, had to be forty pounds—”

“Forty pounds!” exclaims the woman, aghast. 

Containing his frustrated sigh, Jack stills his fiddling and sets the chip back on his pile. Maybe becoming immobile will broadcast his unwillingness to talk, to _everyone_ around him. 

“Forty pounds, I swear,” Chatterbox continues heatedly, nodding. “And old Bobby, he’s got the rod with both hands, he does, and he’s wrasslin’ for all he’s worth—”

“You look famished,” the man behind him observes, cutting off Chatterbox effectively yet again. “Let me buy you dinner.” 

Jack blinks in surprise. He hasn’t eaten in several hours and he’s on his way to starving, but considering it’s a shiny two a.m. on a Wednesday it could be extrapolated that anyone on the casino floor might not have eaten recently. Finally he turns in his seat to face the newcomer, eyebrows lifting when he looks up into liquid brown eyes. The guy is average height, maybe an inch or two taller than him, and he’s broad-shouldered and nicely muscled. His skin is a whiskey caramel and his midnight hair flops down over his forehead in loose curls, giving him a youthful, tousled appearance. 

Dark eyes twinkle down at him. He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform—black pants, a white button-down shirt, and an untied bowtie loose around his neck make up an admittedly delectable picture. Feigning indifference he turns back to the table, helplessly warming under his clothes when the man laughs lightly behind him.

“Cold shoulder, huh? Am I that repulsive?”

Again Jack lets the silence speak for him, eyes on the dealer as he displays another card, three of hearts. With a scowl Chatterbox looks at the house cards and folds, tossing his cards in disgust into the middle of the table, and once Jack checks Mrs. Moneybags sighs before doing the same. 

“A default win, better than nothing,” the waiter says consolingly. 

Jack feels himself bristle with hot irritation but he smothers it. After the dealer pushes the pot towards him Jack collects all his chips in two stacks and gets to his feet, ignoring the waiter and his fellow players in equal measure. 

He walks away, and he’s followed by even strides on his left side. 

“Just dinner, I promise my nature is curious and not sinister.” The waiter beams at him.

“Curious about what?” Jack snaps before he gives himself permission. He pauses infinitesimally and glances over at the waiter, who’s smiling back encouragingly, and firmly shuts his mouth again.

“You stand out to me,” the waiter replies honestly, keeping up as he strides off again. “Like a beacon.”

“I am the utter opposite of a beacon.” And he is. Jack doesn’t dress colourfully and he’s not stylish. Even now, he’s wearing his black leather jacket over a worn out Green Lantern t-shirt and beat up, old jeans. He doesn’t do flashy things or outwardly emote beyond what’s necessary. His last girlfriend called it Pokerfacitis, but he thinks it skews more towards him just being an asshole. 

“You stick out because you try so hard to blend in,” the waiter explains, like that clears anything up. “To me, anyway.” 

“Do I,” Jack replies flatly. He reaches the cash out counters and hands his chips to an unoccupied woman in the same casino attire as his unwanted friend, a white buttoned shirt and black pants. She has on a necktie and a vest as well, making Jack think that his hanger-on must have recently come off shift. 

“You do, sir,” the waiter says, smiling. “I’m Mark.”

There’s an expectant pause where Jack is supposed to offer his own name but he lets it hang as silence instead. Chips counted, the woman behind the counter hands him a printed voucher with a smile. Jack pockets it, nods at her and turns to face the casino floor, half-expecting his bramble of an acquaintance, Mark, to have left but he’s still there, smiling a million watt smile like Jack hasn’t spent the past handful of minutes trying to dissuade him from flirting.

“You don’t have a name to go with all that attitude?” Mark wonders, lips twitching amusedly. 

“Whoever said men can’t take a hint wasn’t far off,” Jack says waspishly. If he left and went home, would this man follow him? Would he go that far? Maybe he should just get a room here in the _Borgata_ for the night.

Mark laughs loudly, though, as if he’s purposefully being comedic. “I get the feeling that you’re taking out the aggressions of your playing on me.” He gives Jack’s face a careful study, as though examining the intricacies of a painting.

Jack snorts derisively, eyeing Mark with a full lack of emotion. He can completely hide his feelings from anyone with ease, but he can’t hide his reactions from himself and the way his body warms under Mark’s scrutiny is unprecedented—especially from a man.

He’s straight. He’s only ever been with women, and he’s never found men attractive beyond an aesthetic appreciation and/or envy. He’s been hit on a few times from gay men, sure, but who hasn’t? It’s the way of things now, and Jack isn’t against it in any way but he’s also not about to sign up for the lifestyle because some fucking waiter won’t stop hounding him. No matter his unprecedented physical reactions.

“Contrary to what you may think, _Mark_ ,” Jack hisses, “I don’t play poorly. Ever. Tonight was a successful night, as any other, and it only soured in the last five minutes.”

“I’m wounded,” Mark muses, his gaze carelessly roaming Jack’s body. He feels warmer than ever under those dark eyes, his imagination rampant as to what Mark could possibly be thinking about. Mark’s eyes lift to his and his face is kind, if mischievous. “I take it that’s a no to dinner, then?”

Jack suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, but only just. “I can’t believe I gave myself away. My pride as a poker player is mauled.”

“Sarcasm becomes you,” Mark tells him, smirking. He tucks his hands into his pockets and Jack steadfastly ignores the way it tautens Mark’s already snug shirt across his chest. 

_Is he doing this on purpose?_ “And absence becomes you,” Jack retorts, and with a harsh sigh he turns his back and walks towards the lobby. A room for the night, it is. He’s too twitchy now, too angry to drive with confidence and the last thing he needs is to wreck his new favourite toy, an Audi R8. 

The walk is a short one, his destination only a stone’s throw off the casino floor. The young woman at the front desk is a knockout, bleach blonde and busty with a tight pencil skirt and jacket in charcoal grey, and the sight of her instantly perks Jack’s interest, but he feels Mark on his heels and he’s wary to flirt in front of him. He’s averse to being that cruel to the man. 

He blinks, frowning slightly. Why is he wary? It’s not like Mark is anything but a pain in his ass. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the woman greets warmly, breaking into his thoughts. She pauses, taking note of Mark at Jack’s shoulder. “Mark? I thought you went home already.”

“Change of plans, Cindy,” he smiles at her. 

Jack ignores him. “I’d like a room, please,” he mutters. “East-facing windows, anything above the tenth floor.”

“Certainly,” Cindy replies amiably, focusing her attention on the computer in front of her. 

“You like to rise with the sun, huh?” Mark asks him. He leans his elbow on the reception desk, a solid slab of polished sandstone. “Peculiar, for a gambler. You sure you don’t cry into a whiskey bottle until eleven a.m. mourning the loss of your wife, kids and day job to the booze and the slots?”

Jack’s lips press together in an attempt to flatten his small smile. “For a man who works in a casino, you’re not exactly etching a flattering picture of your clientele.” 

“We have classic rooms, grande rooms, Fiore suites or Opus suites available,” Cindy begins, eyeing Mark in a what-are-you-doing-you-idiot kind of way. “The classic and grande—”

“The Opus is fine, non-smoking. Thank you,” he tells her, giving a roguish smile. He watches her responsive smile flutter across her lips, her breath catching just slightly before she turns to the computer, flustered. Beside him Mark is silent, no doubt feeling snubbed at Jack’s attempt to deter him. He glances over to the side, expecting hurt and indignation to be sculpted by those broad features, but he’s shocked to see Mark smirking at him knowingly like he’s in on some secret that Jack didn’t even know he had.

“Opus, huh?” Mark murmurs, and his smirk slides into something warmer, something more private. 

Jack’s belly curls with heat but he keeps his face impassive. “Yep.”

“That’s a high roller suite.” Mark’s hand on the desk drums out a distracting rhythm, fingertips tapping staccato beats to a song only he can hear. 

“I can afford it,” Jack replies dryly, digging in his pocket for his casino voucher and his wallet. When prompted by Cindy he offers his ID and his voucher by means of payment, but when he pulls his arm back Mark lets his fingers brush purposefully over his hand. 

Jack’s eyes snap up to meet Mark’s automatically, his arm tingling deliciously. He clenches his hands into fists to stop the sensation but Mark’s smile brightens his expression so brilliantly that it leaves Jack feeling punch drunk and breathless rather than his usual cool, calm and collected demeanour, a mask that he’s desperately trying to hold onto. 

“Still a no for dinner?” Mark prompts him softly. His eyes are heavy on Jack, leaden chocolate weighing him down. 

Jack forces a few breaths in and out of his lungs, slow and measured, perfectly unhurried, as he doctors his expression into one of indifference. He’s unsure how much he let slip, a first for him, and he’s not keen on doing it again. 

“That’s a hell no,” Jack says heatedly, letting his frustration show. 

Mark studies him for a long moment before Cindy clears her throat gently, breaking the tension and drawing both their attentions. “Your room is booked, Mr. McLoughlin.”

Irrational fury bubbles up at the use of his name—for God’s sake, she’s just being polite, not selling him out to Mark—and he accepts his things and the room key from Cindy, gives her a terse nod of thanks and leaves Mark standing there. 

The elevators are across the lobby and down a short hallway, and Jack makes short work of the distance. He hits the call button and waits impatiently for the doors to open, astutely aware of Mark’s presence only yards away, but by the time the doors slide apart the waiter hasn’t made another appearance. The doors close after he steps inside and Jack lets out a hard breath, running a hand through his undoubtedly messy pale brown hair. 

His room is on the twentieth floor, and when he unlocks the door he whistles in appreciation. The living space is spacious and richly furnished with several couches and a large flat-screen HD TV, decorated nicely with fresh flowers beside the TV and tasteful abstract art on the walls. Alongside the living area is an equally spacious dining area, bordered by a bar along one wall. The windows are floor-to-ceiling and the view gazes out over the dark cityscape and, beyond, the ocean. 

The bedroom is huge, dominated by a king size bed in a crisp white duvet and sheets, and the bathroom is a tiled masterpiece. He could probably fit five people in that tub, never mind the shower.

_Yes, this will do nicely,_ Jack thinks to himself as he lazily paces the living room, his anger soothing. Mark is gone from his life, unable to reach him here, and he firmly ignores the confounding mix of emotions that swirl within him at the thought. 

*

Jack is nursing a dry martini, his third, and admiring the view as the sun comes up over Atlantic City’s coast when there’s a polite knock on his door. He gets up from his armchair, moved to face the enormous windows, sets down his drink and crosses the room to the door, frowning. 

He opens it and before him stands a hotel employee, smiling as politely as his knock, with his hands on a dining trolley. “Room service, sir.”

“I haven’t ordered anything,” Jack says, bewildered. Who would order something for him? Who would know his room number, more importantly? His hand clenches the door handle in a tight grip when an errant thought occurs to him. It couldn’t be...

“It came with a note,” the employee tells him and picks up the envelope where it sits neatly on the trolley. He hands it over and Jack quickly rips it open with fingers that shake.

_To Mr. Sean McLoughlin,_

_Maybe breakfast suits us better?_

_Mark, Room 815_

There’s a heart and a cell phone number scrawled beneath the signature and it flares his temper like nothing else possibly could have. What the fuck is this guy’s problem? Is he that stupid that he can’t see Jack’s utter refusal to be near him? 

He crumples the note in his hands furiously, shocking the attendant into wide-eyed confusion. “Send this back to room eight-fifteen, now,” he snarls, and the man nods hurriedly before turning tail and going back towards the elevators, trolley before him.

Just barely resisting slamming the door, Jack leans his back against it and breathes evenly for several minutes to soothe his shattered composure. It’s unlike him to be so easily riled, very unlike him, and the lack of finesse he has regarding this man is beginning to wear on his temper. The paper in his fist taunts him, goads him in Mark’s honeyed voice: _Call me. I did this on purpose to irritate you so you would call me, so call me._

“I am not calling you,” Jack growls to the empty room, clenching his fist around the paper until its points poke sharply into his palm. Even if he doesn’t call him Mark won’t stop, and now Jack knows it. He has Jack’s full name, room number, and possibly his driver’s license information, if Mark used his employment in the casino to get Jack’s information from the hotel system like he thinks he must have. It’s invasive to a startling degree, something that Jack hadn’t expected from him, and Jack knows he needs to nip this in the bud before anything escalates and he _really_ loses his temper. Nobody needs that kind of aggression in their life, himself included. 

Using the hotel phone Jack dials for room 815 and waits with anger broiling in his chest, clinging around his lungs and funnelling down his arms to settle irritably in his hands. 

Mark picks up on the fourth ring. “Good morning,” he greets, sounding incredibly amused.

Jack’s hand clenches the phone until the plastic creaks. “You need to stop.”

“Stop what, exactly?”

“I’m _not interested_ ,” Jack snaps, enunciating clearly and harshly. “So get the picture already.”

“I would normally listen,” Mark replies, “except I know that’s complete bullshit. You had me guessing for a while because your poker face is so good, but it’s not as good around me, I think. And that really bugs you.”

Jack closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten, praying for patience. It won’t do to let Mark know how much it affects him, being so blindingly unarmored around him. He’s unused to it, and Mark seems to know that much, at least, just from observation. Jack shudders to think what Mark could learn if he only looked harder when Jack’s defenses are down. 

“If you wanted to push buttons, you’re succeeding,” he murmurs, deceptively soft, as he opens them again. “I wonder at your sanity, since you do seem to want to push my buttons.”

“I really just want to push the fun buttons,” Mark teases him gently, “but you’re making me work hard to get there.”

Jack pulls the phone away to breathe for a moment as heat trickles down his spine and sets off a series of small shivers. It’s not anger, and as it travels his body he knows that it’s wiping away the traces of any anger in its path. _Anticipation_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully, and Jack stamps down hard on the thought. 

He brings the phone back to his ear. “I’m not amused, Mark,” Jack snaps, trying to force fury into his tone to make up for it.

“Aren’t you, though?” Mark whispers. It’s sensual, provoking uncharted mayhem within Jack’s body. Right in his ear, like Mark’s there with him. “You’re not even a little curious about me? About why I affect you like I do?”

“Not remotely,” Jack gripes, even though he is. He most certainly is, and gaining more intrigue with every passing second. “I’m straight, Mark. Horrendously, unerringly straight. I’ve never looked at men like that.” Why is he explaining himself to this... romantic interloper? 

“Everything has a beginning,” Mark murmurs enigmatically. “And I’m yours.”

_I’m yours._ Jack’s breath stutters to a halt at the words, so carelessly used but said with such quiet intensity that he feels the double meaning behind them like a slap to the face. 

He hates that he likes the sound of those words on Mark’s lips, in his warm voice. He hates it... and he doesn’t. Jack tightens his hand around the paper in his fist to renew some of his earlier anger but it’s wilting drastically, baseless when confronted with Mark’s shining optimism, his guileless and honestly appealing tenacity to get Jack where he wants him. Jack is the same—when he wants something, he finds a way to get it.

“Are you there?” Mark says, soft and, for the first time, apprehensive. 

“I don’t know why, but yes, I’m still here.” Jack keeps his tone indifferent, the only thing he can do effectively.

Mark chuckles a little and it’s deep, soft and warm with humour. “So I guess you’re not going to come and help me eat all this food, then?”

Indignant, Jack bristles at the imagery. _Sure, I’ll eat breakfast with him when Hell freezes over, after he’s basically laid out on a gold platter what he wants to do with me!_ Before he can think better of it, before he can phrase it better or reconsider Jack lets the anger get the better of him and barks, “No!” and slams the phone down onto its cradle. 

The room is way too silent in the aftermath of his rude goodbye, and it lets too many thoughts into his head, beckoning him in a direction he’s refusing to run in. Away from what he’s used to, away from his life and his loneliness and all his hangups that he wallows in to keep others away. His bad moods, his temper, his lack of give-a-fuck about anything except himself... Mark saw it all and plowed right through it, peeled off his poker face like a sticker and put traitorously attractive thoughts in his mind.

For the first time since he met him four hours ago, Jack lets himself think about Mark without bias. Honesty hangs around the man like a halo, and he idly wonders if Mark’s ever been the type to tell lies, even little white ones that don’t matter. Jack is the kind to tell people what they want to hear to get rid of them, or tells them his stark opinion on whatever the topic is, which usually gets the job done too. Mark... he’ll say what’s on his mind, yes, but he’d be more cautious about it than Jack ever would be. 

Tenacious—Jack’s seen that proven tenfold—and resourceful. Offhandedly charming. Witty, with an odd sense of humour, and a little loquacious even in the face of Jack’s clammed up nature. 

_If only he was a woman..._ Jack catches himself thinking, and he shuts it out firmly.

Mark is definitely his type, he’s loath to admit, and even though he’s a man Jack can feel the pull as if he was actually female. That should be it, enough for him to ease into the idea, but something holds him back. They just... clash, in far too many instances and far too much for Jack to seriously consider getting to know Mark, like he suspects Mark wants to. Even if Mark can see past his masks he still can’t figure everything out just by looking at his face, which means Jack will have to talk—about himself. 

Yeah, that’s not happening.

He paces back to the dining room and picks up his drink where he left it, emptying the glass in one gulp. _Steeling yourself for battle? Or something else?_ nags a little voice in his head, and he thoroughly ignores it with a tepid scowl. 

He won’t cave. Mark and he are too different, and Jack’s not even sure he could be with a man. Cutting Mark’s expectations off at the knees is the only way to get his point across. He won’t cave. 

He _won’t_. 

*

The room phone rings twice in the next hour, studiously neglected by Jack along with a heated glare, and after the hour hand on the wall clock passes the nine he doesn’t get anymore calls. 

It should please him that Mark’s finally got the message, but it doesn’t. Instead it rips at his resolve, shredding the tertiary excuses that he’s used on so many women in the past— _we’re incompatible, he doesn’t understand how I am, he’ll want to change me_ —because he knows even as he defends them that they’re all false when it comes to Mark. Mark knows him, it seems, better than many of Jack’s past relationships, and he doubts very much that Mark has any intention of altering him for better or worse.

It depresses him, being alone in the big suite with nothing to do but stew over his decision, so he splashes cold water on his face before heading down to the casino. On his way he checks out of his room and pays, noting that it’s the same woman as before behind the desk, Cindy.

She frowns at him as he accepts his receipt and his voucher. “Sorry if this is too personal, sir, but weren’t you with Mark last night?”

He freezes, instantly defensive, and refrains from hunching his shoulders. Impassively he mutters, “No, I wasn’t. I keep saying no to him and he won’t listen.”

“Why?” she asks. It’s not fishing or demanding, but plain curiosity. She seems genuinely confused that he’d refuse to date Mark.

Jack sighs but gives nothing away on his face. “I’m not interested,” is what he goes with, one of the various reasons why. “He won’t give up, though.”

Cindy’s perfectly painted mouth twists a little, her brow lowering worriedly. She’s clearly distressed about something. 

“What is it?” he asks reluctantly. He’s unsure if he even wants to hear the answer.

“Mark is... under the impression that you are,” she says slowly, tenuously. “Interested, I mean. He was all smiles last night when he told me he’d found some way to contact you. I thought he was nuts since you... well, weren’t terribly nice to him, but he insisted you were.”

“And now?” Jack wants to know.

She shrugs. “I couldn’t say. I didn’t see him before his shift this morning.”

Jack frowns, tamping down his rising concern. It’s not his wont to worry, and it’s definitely not his problem. But he still asks, “He’s working again today? Didn’t he work late last night?”

“He works a lot,” Cindy says, giving him a peculiar look. “He has bills to pay, just like the rest of us.” She seems to remember her place, quite suddenly, because she gains an air of professionalism and adds, “Have a good day, sir.”

It’s a clear dismissal of the conversation. “You, too,” Jack mutters, and turns away. 

So Mark spent what’s possibly most of his few precious hours between two shifts trying to persuade Jack to come to his room—a room that he paid for in vain, as well as what Jack suspects was a luxury breakfast for two. Mark probably doesn’t have much disposable income to throw at something like a random hotel room if he’s working sixteen hours out of thirty, and he certainly doesn’t have the kind of connections necessary to get any discount on such expensive things, either. 

Jack sighs hard as he walks into the _Borgata_ ’s casino, hands already twitchy to earn money at the hands of the house. It’s not his business. Mark can do what he pleases with his own money, even if he throws it fruitlessly at people, trying to woo them. He rejected Mark, therefore washing his hands of the man.

He frowns as he cashes in a few thousand dollars from his voucher back into chips. He did want to wash his hands of Mark. He _does_ want to, and he has. Mark stopped trying to contact him, so he must’ve got the hint by now, surely? 

Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension from them, Jack wanders the floor until he finds a table to his liking, but as he pulls the chair away from the table he pauses. He wants to bleed someone dry, wants to feel vindicated and authoritative where Mark makes him feel so unsure, but he wants to gouge someone who can actually afford to lose it.

Usually he strives for a low concentration of players with bigger pockets rather than a full table of average betters or a table of big shots, but today... He’s irritable, on a hair trigger because of Mark’s needling and he needs to calm himself down. 

High rollers, it is.

*

He’s up over thirty thousand dollars but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. His poker face is back in place, right where it should be, masking his every thought and feeling from those around him. He’s already reduced the man on his far left to nothing but a couple of chips, the woman beside him scowling at him behind glittering Dior frames, a haughty, painted fingernail tapping her cards primly as she stares him down. The only real contender at his table is another man, maybe fifty or so, with a poker face of enough quality to rival his own. 

The man’s slicked back salt-and-pepper hair is pristine, not one strand out of place, and his similarly coloured beard is expertly trimmed into a goatee. He’s dark-skinned, possibly European and he wears a sharp suit in dusky grey with a waistcoat and everything. 

_You’d be lucky to get me to wear a tie, never mind all that_ , Jack muses internally, rubbing an absent fingertip over his facedown doubles aces. The house holds the three and four of diamonds and the king of hearts, and depending on the last two cards he could get a lot out of this. 

The European raises two thousand dollars and without missing a beat Jack checks, tossing the necessary chips into the pot. He watches the woman’s face change imperceptibly. Her mask isn’t bad either, but it’s not quite good enough and she folds, lips pressed into an unimpressed scowl. The man on the end can’t even meet that bet and he folds, too, taking the last of his chips with him and leaving the table.

Jack’s eyes trace the dealer’s hands as she flips the next card—six of clubs. He contains his disappointment and waits for the European to check or raise.

A drink appears at Jack’s elbow, what appears to be scotch on the rocks. He frowns at it, looking up at the waitress who’s depositing it beside him. “I didn’t order this.”

“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” she informs him, turning to gesture to a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man with his back to Jack. 

_Mark_. It has to be him. Wrangling his sudden and mounting irritation, the likes of which he’d gotten rid of only hours earlier, Jack nudges it away from him. “Take it back.”

The waitress nods and removes the drink and Jack turns his attention back to the table. The European has checked again but not raised, and Jack does the same. 

The dealer flips the next card and Jack’s heart leaps. Another six! The six of spades. Two pair is more than enough to win, depending on how good the European’s hand is and whether his poker face is good enough to back up his bluff. 

“Gentlemen, show your cards,” the dealer prompts them both.

With an infinitesimal sigh the European flips his cards to bare the two of diamonds and the four of clubs. An unfinished straight in the diamonds, but nothing more. Triumphant internally but impassive visually, Jack turns his cards over to bare the ace of hearts and the ace of diamonds, the other card his opponent had possibly needed to attempt to finish his straight.

Jack allows himself a tiny grin as the dealer stacks the chips in the pot and slides them all towards him. Just about forty thousand, now. The European turns to him, a small smile on his pouty lips. 

“You play a fantastic game, Mister...?” His accent is thick, Spanish, and unexpectedly sexy, and as he leans back in his chair his suit jacket parts across his chest slightly, his biceps flexing within the tailored sleeves.

_Is he hitting on me?_ Jack blinks at his own thoughts. “McLoughlin,” he replies. “And you, too.”

“Call me Javier. Could I tempt you for a drink? My treat,” the man continues warmly.

_Definitely hitting on me._ “You’re a very gracious loser,” Jack can’t help but murmur, a half-smirk on his lips.

“I like to see it as potential for something else, rather than a loss,” Javier says, and his dark grey eyes burn with something Jack’s all too familiar with. He’s just used to it in a different colour. 

_Used to it?_ he scoffs at himself. Mark still hasn’t got the picture. He just sent over a drink, for Christ’s sake, so it’s obvious he’s not backing off. 

To Javier he says as he gathers his chips in a small bag, “I’m incredibly flattered, but—”

A hand drops onto his shoulder and his words stop cold, his head whipping around to see Mark at his side, dressed in regular clothes and levelling a rude stare at Javier.

“He’s not on the menu,” Mark nearly snarls, and Jack’s eyebrows lift. He’s shocked into speechlessness. 

Javier is all too amused, though, and raises a hand in concession as he gets to his feet and buttons his suit jacket. “Yes, I can see that now. Well, good day to you both.” He takes his own stacks of chips and leaves them, giving Jack a small smirk before he turns and walks away.

Shock is quickly being overridden by fury, though, the longer Mark stands with his hand so casually on Jack’s body. He shrugs it off hard and Mark looks down at him from watching Javier leave. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Jack growls at him, standing from his seat to lessen the height difference between them. “How many times do I have to tell you to fuck off?”

“Technically, that’s the first time you’ve said it to me,” Mark points out and smiles, all traces of aggression gone. “But I doubt you can change my mind now. I’m a man on a mission.”

Jack sighs roughly, shoving Mark out of the way with a hand to his chest. His palm flattens briefly against Mark’s pec and he feels the muscles move under his touch when Mark turns to stop him. It makes his body warm, made worse when Mark’s hand rests on the small of his back. He shouldn’t be able to feel it so well through his jacket but he can, and his next breath is shorter, tighter.

Mark looks down at him, keeping him close and almost desperately searching his eyes for something. Jack feels his mask cracking, feels his parched lips try to close around his uneven breathing, feels his eyes go wide as Mark’s hands slide around his body, bringing them close. 

“What are you doing?” Jack demands, but it lacks the heat he wants. 

“Why did you send the drink back?” Mark asks him, instead of answering. 

Steeling his weak resolve Jack pushes him away until there’s space between them again, until Mark’s hands fall away from him. “Because I don’t want to fuck you!” he hisses angrily. 

Mark’s mouth quirks. “First of all, if you’re going to lie then do it well enough that I believe you. Second of all, since when does a drink have a contract for sex attached?”

“Since you showed up,” Jack snaps, moving past him. “You can’t tell me you’re not trying to have sex with me.”

“Oh, no, I never said that,” Mark laughs. He follows, of course, all the way to the cash out counter. “I’m definitely trying to have sex with you, but I want a few strings attached, too.”

“Just a few?” Jack wonders, before he can edit or omit the words. Then he scowls and states firmly, “I’m not going to fuck you.”

Mark gives him a small, sad smile that pulls at his heart. Jack swallows, waiting for him to say something, but he’s silent. It’s manipulation, right? Trying to soften him, coerce him towards the idea. 

“More than a few,” Mark admits after the silence drags out too long. Then he sighs, perusing Jack’s face, his already maskless face. How does one man do so much damage to his defenses? 

“Take a hint,” Jack snarls, when those eyes seem to probe too deeply. 

Mark smiles crookedly and Jack’s chest tightens. _He’s so attractive_ , he thinks helplessly, then banishes the thought from his head. The feeling is still there though, soaking into his flesh and making him ache. 

_It’s been too long since I got laid. That’s all this is._ The excuse is garbage, even to his own mind. 

“I’m still in room eight-fifteen,” Mark says. It sounds offhand but the way Mark looks down at him, so hopeful and needy... It makes Jack want to comply. He wants to make this man happy. 

He shoves the thought away. It’s not his job to make anyone happy, that’s the whole point of being a loner. Mark needs to get that.

Resolute, Jack turns to the man behind the counter and hands his bag of chips over. They’re counted and a voucher is printed, which he takes along with a receipt, pocketing both. He turns opposite Mark and makes for the lobby and further on, the parking garage where his baby is parked. 

He fully expects Mark to follow him, so he’s surprised when he turns to tell him to get lost only to see empty space. In the lobby, he circles slowly in place and sure enough, Mark is nowhere near him. He probably didn’t even follow him out of the casino. 

“Good riddance,” Jack mutters, but the words drag something painful along with them. He does what he does best, and ignores it in favour of a welcome distraction.

*

The drive back to his place is short, thanks to European engineering. He’ll never get over the thrill of such a powerful car, the ease with which he can push it past anything a layperson’s vehicle can achieve. The oomph behind the acceleration when he nudges his foot down is heaven, the purring roar of the engine a harmony of power.

But when he gets to his apartment it’s a hollow victory. He’s somewhere that Mark really and truly can’t find him, and since Jack knows where Mark works he can visit other casinos instead and avoid him altogether. It’s what he wants, what he’s wanted since Mark strolled so casually into his life the night before.

Knowing that doesn’t make him feel any better.

He showers and changes into pyjama pants and a t-shirt, crawling into his bed with the intent of wasting a day in sleep, but the more he tosses and turns, the more he realizes he’s far too wound up from a combination of an amazing night of gambling, and... Mark. Jack chases sheep for an hour before he gets out of bed again, frustrated to the tips of his toes, and paces his bedroom.

What the hell is the matter with him? He dresses again in clean clothes and fixes himself a drink, a dry martini, and as he takes the first sip he thinks of scotch on the rocks, of Mark’s hands touching him so surely, so intently. With careful, muted force he sets the glass down again and lets out a long, harsh sigh. 

Back to the _Borgata_ , then.

*

He knocks on the door designated 815, feeling boyish nerves swathing his body for the first time since secondary school. His R8 did wonders for letting his mind sort itself, and he figures the only thing that’ll clear his conscience is apologizing. He’s been as rude as Mark has been persistent, and while he usually doesn’t apologize for anything he knows Mark really had his heart set on dating him. Jack can understand that kind of heartfelt disappointment, and he’s sorry he caused it in anyone.

The door swings open while Jack is mid-reverie, and on the other side is Mark, shirtless and barefoot, wearing pyjama pants. His hair is damp from a recent shower and his expression is distressed, his eyes down on the carpet. 

_He looks incredible_ , Jack can’t help thinking, and then berates himself with Mark’s own words, _but he’s not on the menu._

“The sign on the door says—” Mark begins tiredly, but he looks up halfway through his sentence and stops abruptly at the sight of Jack on the threshold. 

Jack takes note of the sign on the door handle, flipped to show _Do Not Disturb_. “I can come back later,” Jack says, lips helplessly quirking in humour. 

“You...” Mark breathes, lost for words. His bare, hairless chest heaves with the force of his breaths. Wide brown eyes eat him up where he stands, like it’s the last he’ll ever see of Jack. _Which_ , Jack reminds himself sternly, _it is._

Jack sighs and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “I just came by to say I’m sorry for how I tr—” He’s abruptly stopped when Mark surges forward, grabs his face with both hands and kisses him soundly. 

He makes a noise of shock that gets caught somewhere between their mouths and Mark devours it, his mouth moving expertly over Jack’s, hands delving into his short hair. After the split second of dumbfounded surprise Jack’s anger boils over and he’s shoving at Mark’s chest roughly—his naked chest, and when his hands touch that tanned skin he feels warm, warmer than he can stand.

Especially when Mark doesn’t back off at all, crowding into Jack’s personal space with big eyes. “Now,” the waiter says, hands curling around his waist instead of going back to his face, “go ahead. Try and tell me how much you didn’t feel just now.”

Jack tries to squirm out of his arms but Mark holds him fast. “I feel nothing,” he spits, pushing at his arms, and finally Mark lets him go and steps back. 

He’s wary to look at Mark’s face for fear of seeing the hurt and rejection there plain as day but he does. Mark looks disappointed, sure, but Jack gets the distinct feeling that he’s not disappointed in himself. He’s disappointed in _Jack_. It’s Jack who let him down. 

With a flare of temper Jack pushes him backwards into his room. “Don’t you look at me like that,” he growls, following and shutting the door behind him.

Mark willingly walks backwards, his expression openly confused and hesitant now as he watches Jack with undiverted attention. “Look at you like what?”

“Like I missed the punchline to some joke,” Jack snaps. He waves a hand at Mark with visible, uncontained aggravation. “You look at me, always you fucking look at me. You figured me out just by watching me, you said. What do you think you uncovered, some diamond in the rough?” He snorts, laughing harshly. “I’m not a good man, Mark. Whatever you think you see in me is wishful thinking.”

The waiter frowns, sitting down onto the edge of the bed. “You’re not a bad man, either. I’ve seen your temper, yeah. You’ve got a very... healthy one.” His lips curve up. “But you’re worth whatever it is I can give you.”

His room isn’t terribly big, a classic or maybe a grande room, and it’s a fraction of the size of the Opus suite Jack bought the night before so pacing the length of it is much less satisfying, but Jack knows that if he sits still he can’t guarantee his actions will remain civil. “Do you have some kind of selective hearing condition?” Jack asks him, narrowing his eyes. “Do you actually refuse to listen to me when I tell you no?”

Mark grins, leaning back on his hands and blatantly flexing his chest muscles as he does. Jack’s eyes dart to the movement and then he’s stuck there, snagged by Mark’s physique. 

“I hear you, loud and clear,” Mark says plainly. “I just know it’s bullshit.”

Wrenching his eyes away from Mark, he continues pacing. “Just like that, you’re convinced you know me better than I do. I’ve said no and I meant it, every time.”

“Sean,” Mark sighs, a plea.

Jack stops dead. He looks at Mark incredulously, all remnants of his mask long gone, and mutters, “Don’t call me that.”

“What in the hell am I supposed to call you, then?” Mark demands, incredulous himself. He gets to his feet and comes to Jack, getting in the way of his pacing path. “Is that not your name?”

“It is,” Jack mumbles, rubbing a tired hand across his eyes, “but I go by Jack.” Why is he telling him this? He’s supposed to be getting rid of Mark, once and for all, not letting him in on more of his life. 

“Jack, then,” Mark says, and Jack’s body thrills with excitement. He shoves the feeling aside, swallowing the dry lump developing in his throat. Mark’s face softens, because of course he can see the effect he has on Jack, of course he can see right through Jack’s expression to what lies within. The waiter reaches out with both hands and catches the lapels of Jack’s leather jacket but he doesn’t bring him any closer. “Tell me, Jack. Tell me why you won’t do this with me. Why you won’t even try.”

Mark’s voice is so weathered, so beaten down that, not for the first time, Jack regrets being so harsh. He swallows again. “Because I’m not right for you.”

“Oh, Jack,” Mark murmurs, thumbs stroking the leather in his hands. “You couldn’t be more wrong.”

“But how do you know that?” Jack wants to know. He sighs. “How can I simply believe your word?”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me,” Mark whispers, bending again. 

Jack barely has time to avert his face before Mark kisses him, and he’s expecting some tugging by his jacket but Mark is immobile except for his head. When Jack recoils Mark pauses and leans away again, and after squeezing Jack’s lapels tightly he lets go and steps back considerably. 

Mark nods to himself a little once they’re separated, a gesture of acceptance with his eyes cast down to the carpet. In the brightly lit hotel room it seems even sadder to watch him recede, to watch all the humour leak out of his expression and leave bitter truth in its wake. 

“I don’t have anything more to say,” Mark says after a long minute of quiet, only the sounds of their breathing in the air. 

Amazingly, anger froths beneath Jack’s skin at his defeated posture, his equally defeated tone. Mark looks like he’s finally lost a slowly losing battle, with all of the dashed hope that it entails, and Jack’ll be damned if he’s going to be responsible for it.

He presses his lips together in a futile attempt to soothe himself and snaps, “Yeah, well I do.” Mark’s head lifts in confusion, and it’s with a heavy heart that Jack realizes Mark expected him to simply... leave. He’s been let loose from Mark’s amour, after all, so why didn’t he take the chance to really finish this?

_I’m attached_ , Jack thinks to himself, but it’s not enough to describe the misplaced anger, the even more misplaced desire as he looks at Mark’s weary expression. _I want him to be happy._ Again, it’s just shy of being true and finally, as he studies the face that so readily studies him, Jack amends, _I want to make him happy._

He’s furious, though, as he takes in the growing hope in Mark’s chocolate gaze. What an idiot, to drag him through all that hullabaloo and then just drop the chase when Jack’s actually here—to apologize, no less! 

Jack is lost for words, his mouth opening and closing again with attempted and aborted sentences as he tries to articulate just how furious he is, why he’s so furious. Mark stands there staring, and Jack’s blood boils for multiple reasons when a smile curls the waiter’s lips and he takes a purposeful step forward. 

He can’t help it—Jack takes a responsive step back, and Mark takes another forward. All the way to the wall Mark herds him and Jack goes, knowing full well what’s about to happen and trying to prepare himself for it. It’s still a shock when Mark backs him up against the wall, caging him in with his arms on either side of his head, and bends.

At the first touch of his lips a combined heat spirals up and down Jack’s body, anger and desire wrapped up in one and feeding into each other, and he groans at the feeling. In response Mark pushes him bodily into the wall, the tan skin of his chest flushed feverishly, his mouth eager and desperate. As he gets used to the feeling of stubble against his lips Jack places his hands on his chest and Mark’s groan is louder than his, his kisses hurried, as if fearful that he’ll suddenly be bereft of Jack’s company. 

Bristly, prickly, angry heat plucks at Jack’s lungs, seeping through his body and fuelling his temper. Just what does Mark take him for? Did he really think Jack would desert him, after all of this?

_It was your exact intention until thirty seconds ago,_ sneers a wayward, irritating thought. Jack shoves it aside and bites at Mark’s bottom lip, eliciting a small gasp as he reverses their position, pinning Mark back against the wall. 

They part, and Mark stares down at him, brown eyes wide with surprise. “Is this happening?” he wonders, sounding dazed. 

“Shut up,” Jack growls, but he can’t help smirking when Mark grins at him. Deliberately slow, Mark slides his hands beneath Jack’s leather jacket, easing it off his shoulders and down his arms until it falls to the floor, and Jack shivers as Mark’s warm palms graze down his arms. 

“Will you fuck me?” Mark asks him softly, hands steadily making their way back up his arms to his neck. 

Heat lances him, catching his breath. “Depends,” he says, swallowing.

Mark lifts an eyebrow inquisitively, fingers teasing at the hairs on his nape.

“If I fuck you,” Jack begins, and makes himself look into Mark’s eyes, “I won’t be gentle.”

“Is that because you’re frustrated with me, or because you don’t typically fuck gently?” Mark asks him. He’s amused. 

“Both.” Jack sighs, moving a hand up to curl around Mark’s neck. The feel of such a muscled body is foreign but not unwanted but it’ll definitely take some getting used to, especially the height thing. Mark’s molten eyes twinkle down at him, swimming with mirth, and with sudden want Jack remembers Mark saying to him, _Everything has a beginning. And I’m yours._ He suspects that, while Mark won’t try to change him, he will undoubtedly bring change with him. 

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” Mark muses, and tips Jack’s face up slightly with his thumbs at his jaw. 

Their kiss is slow this time, Mark’s lips coaxing his to follow a pattern of caresses and movements. Jack follows his lead and claws a hand in Mark’s slightly damp hair, humming into his mouth when big, warm hands slide underneath his t-shirt and coast up his back. They separate long enough for Mark to pull it off over his head and then Mark’s right back on him, hands gripping tightly at his hips as he pushes Jack towards the bed. 

He’s unused to not being the one in control, and when Jack’s back hits the mattress it must become obvious in his face because Mark smiles that gregarious, warm smile of his and lies beside him, teasing a fingertip along the happy trail fuzz just below his navel. 

“Easy,” Mark soothes quietly, and Jack swallows at the subtle heat in his tone. His fingers crawl up, up his stomach and along his sternum before resting over his heart. Mark’s eyes lift to his, chocolate meeting cerulean. “I know I’m asking a lot. We can stop anytime.”

“Now of all times you’re willing to stop?” Jack scoffs breathlessly. He’s rewarded with Mark’s deep chuckle and his fingers tickle his chest as Mark moves his hand up to curl around Jack’s jaw. 

“I don’t know what it is about you,” Mark murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “When I saw you at the casino I couldn’t take my eyes off you. After watching you and seeing that poker face at work, I wondered what it would take to make you smile, really smile.” Mark studies him with their faces mere inches apart and on cue Jack feels exposed, taken apart under those eyes. “I’m still working on that.”

Jack would bet his winnings for the week that Mark will undoubtedly succeed, no matter his goal. A broad thumb strokes over his cheek and Mark’s head dips, taking Jack’s mouth, negating any response he might’ve had. His hands seek out something solid and they come up against Mark’s chest, fingers splaying across his pecs and Mark groans into his mouth before adjusting his body so that they’re fit snugly together with Mark partially on top of him. 

Unexpectedly, Mark is a welcome weight over him and Jack’s arms find their way around his back, fingertips perusing the planes of muscle and skin. A knee insinuates itself between Jack’s thighs as Mark shifts, mouth opening and coaxing out Jack’s tongue to tangle with his, and he’s helpless when Mark rolls his body down, his thigh rubbing right against Jack’s groin and offering some much appreciated friction.

He moans loudly and Mark’s kisses gain some bite as he echoes the sentiment, hands insistent now as they bury in Jack’s hair and tug. Mark directs his head to the side and then bends to bite along his neck, intermittent kisses placed after each one like tiny apologies. His body rocks down into Jack again and again he lets out a groan, this time unhindered by Mark’s mouth. Jack’s head tips back willingly as Mark makes a path of bites and kisses all across his neck and collarbones, his hips gyrating steadily onto Jack’s with a slow, easy rhythm that brings his blood up to a simmer. 

“I’m a ruined man,” Mark sighs into his shoulder, pressing several kisses there. At Jack’s lazy, inquisitive noise he chuckles and elaborates with a slow roll of his hips, “Nobody fires me up like you.”

“Likewise,” Jack says dryly, and he takes great pleasure in the belly laugh that Mark lets out into his chest. “Though I think my definition varies slightly from yours.”

“You couldn’t possibly be referring to that delicate temper of yours, could you?” Mark muses.

Jack presses his lips together to smother a smirk, but it creeps out anyways. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

Mark plants a soft, smiling kiss on his lips before he leans back to look at Jack’s face. “Sure you don’t.” He looks into Jack’s eyes at length and then murmurs, “I believe I was promised a hard fuck.”

With a tentativeness he’s unfamiliar with, Jack lets his palms stroke up Mark’s back. “That you were.”

When Jack makes no move to progress things Mark’s mouth quirks. “Can I assume your hesitance has to do with inexperience in this area?” 

Jack rolls his eyes. “Gee, what gave it away?” 

“Well, you did tell me you were horrendously straight,” Mark says amusedly, running his hand through the hair over Jack’s forehead. He kisses the bridge of Jack’s nose and then sits up, putting space between them. “You trust me?”

Warily Jack nods. 

Mark smirks, sexy and hot, and gets off the bed before untying the drawstring of his pyjama pants and letting them fall down his legs, baring his body completely to Jack’s eyes. It’s... unusual, to see a man unclothed and know that he’s going to have sex with that man, and it’s even more unusual to _want_ to have sex with a man. But Jack feels the precedented tightening in his gut at the sight of Mark’s nakedness, his developing erection that he would with any woman, and the last of his hesitation disappears. 

“I could really get used to seeing that look on your face,” Mark breathes, his intense gaze immovably on him. 

Jack swallows as his body flushes with heat. Slowly Mark prowls back towards him and onto the bed, his dark eyes everywhere, picking up every little move that Jack’s body makes. The anticipation compounds as Mark kneels beside him and waits without touching him, his dick well and truly hard now and standing at attention. He simply sits there and watches Jack fall apart with the need to touch him, the overwhelming need to be touched by big, warm hands. 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” Jack demands, scowling through his desire. 

Mark’s lips curve up. “Yes.”

With a short, irritated growl Jack leaps forward and crashes their mouths together and the tension breaks like a bursting dam, drenching Jack in need as Mark’s hands instantly come up to spread down his back. He bites harshly at Mark’s lips, at his chin and he’s pleasantly surprised when Mark moans throatily. He could do with more of that.

Tilting Mark’s face away with his hands Jack stoops to press his teeth at his pulse, nibbling lightly at first and then evolving into a sharp nip, followed immediately by a tender, wet kiss. He smells clean and fresh with a hint of musky body wash, and while it’s a cocktail he’s unused to Jack finds he’s not opposed, not when he knows it’s Mark. A hot swell of power surges through him as Mark shivers and digs his nails into Jack’s hips, a gasping moan catching in his throat and Jack repeats the process all along his jugular, finally dipping to his collarbone and biting hard before soothing the area with a long, slow lick. 

“Jack,” his buffet sighs unevenly, hands tensing on his waist. “Jack, a-ah—”

“And here I thought I’d magically rendered you speechless,” Jack mutters to his jaw, biting there sharply before moving up and capturing Mark’s mouth. 

Mark’s moan clashes with his lips and Jack feels the sound vibrate through his body in a fine tremor. Clutching his face tightly Jack delves his tongue into Mark’s mouth, chasing another one of those soft, helpless noises that light him up like fireworks. Mark doesn’t disappoint, and when he moans again Jack’s stiffening cock strains against his zipper. 

“Hold on,” Jack mumbles, breaking away. At once Mark makes a sound of disapproval and brings his face right back for another deep, slow, absurdly hot kiss and Jack lets himself enjoy the feeling before he smirks and draws back again. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere. I just need these off.” He moves his hands towards the fastening on his jeans in explanation.

“Let me,” Mark says quickly, nudging his hands away. Jack swallows and nods when Mark looks up at him in askance, and then Mark’s fingers are deftly, if shakily, working his pants open and sliding down the zipper. He groans softly as the pressure lets up and obligingly lifts his hips as Mark grabs the waistband and tugs both his jeans and boxer briefs down over his hips and thighs. 

His cock springs free and Mark makes a soft sound of pleasure, hastily pulling his pants off along with his shoes and socks before looking up at Jack again through dark lashes. 

“You look fucking great,” Jack blurts, then feels his face flush with heat. 

“Same to you,” Mark replies tenderly. He climbs back up Jack’s body as he lies back until they’re at eye level with each other. Hovering over him, Mark smiles and places his hands on either side of Jack’s head, swinging a leg across him to straddle his thighs. “Really great, actually.” His dark eyes seem to darken even further as he adds, “I can’t wait to have you inside me.” 

Jack swallows at the imagery that the words prompt and his heart races as his cock twitches. 

Mark notices the small motion and he smirks. “I see that we’re in agreement.” Bending slowly, he presses a tender kiss to Jack’s lips before lifting up onto his knees and reaching to the nightstand where a bottle of unscented lotion sits. He pumps it once into his hand and then resettles on Jack’s thighs. 

Jack tenses up instinctively at the sight, and the hot look Mark gives him. He doesn’t expect Jack to...? He’s fearful for all of two seconds, but then Mark is lifting up onto his knees again, rubbing the lotion over his fingers, planting a hand by Jack’s head and reaching back towards his ass. 

“Oh,” Jack breathes, and now he’s tense for a completely different reason. He watches Mark’s face change from low-lying desire to pleasure in the span of a single moment, watches him bite his bottom lip as his biceps flex imperceptibly with the motion of his hand. 

“I want to see,” he says, before he’s even aware he’s speaking, and Mark pauses. Those foggy, brimming-with-lust eyes focus on him and then Mark is adjusting himself, moving his hand so he can swing his leg off of Jack’s lap. Shuffling to the side, Mark rearranges himself until he’s facedown on a pillow beside Jack, knees tucked up and his ass in the air. 

“Better?” Mark murmurs huskily, his cheek pressed to the pillow. 

Wordlessly Jack nods and Mark reaches back again with the same hand. Jack sits up and moves down the bed until he can fully see Mark’s backside, knees spread wide on the bed and his lone middle finger easing slowly into his ass. He watches Mark recede his finger to the first knuckle only to push back in again as far as his hand will allow, and by the way Mark’s body subtly twitches he knows that Mark is moving his finger inside. The sight is unbearably erotic, and Jack’s breath gusts out as Mark adds a second finger in short succession. 

“I’m going to burst before you’re even in me.” Mark’s voice snaps him out of his trance and Jack rips his gaze away from Mark’s hand to look at his flushed face. “God, the way you look at me, Jack.”

Jack swallows, watches avidly as Mark bites his lip and arches his back as he sinks his fingers into himself. “I’ve never been so turned on in my life,” Jack admits throatily, and his body thrills at Mark’s breathy laugh. 

“You sure know how to flatter a guy,” he says, but it tapers off into a moan. Jack clenches his hands into fists, securely anchored to his thighs to resist touching Mark, a task that’s growing more difficult by the second. 

They’re quiet, the only sound in the hotel room the soft, barely there squelching of Mark’s lotioned fingers and his breathy sighs as he stretches himself for Jack. He’s painfully hard as he watches and he can see Mark’s cock, hard and flushed red, drooling a couple drops of precum onto the bed, and when Mark adds a third finger Jack lets out a shaky, audible breath at the same time that Mark moans. 

“How—how much more?” Jack says, swallowing to try and clear his dry throat. 

“Put some lotion on your cock,” Mark says, his voice wobbling, and he nods towards the bottle of lotion on the nightstand. Hastily Jack complies, letting out a short moan at both the cool lotion and the touch of his hand, but then he’s right back by Mark’s side. Finally he can’t stand it anymore and he rests an eager hand on Mark’s lower back, and Mark arches into his touch and groans, pulling his hand away and shifting minutely. 

Foreseeing Mark’s next instructions Jack shuffles over until he’s kneeling behind him, and he looks down with his heart pounding a salsa rhythm against his ribs. Mark’s side-eyeing him with half his face pushed into the pillow, his dark hair unruly and his ass keenly presented to Jack. Waiting. 

With a steadying, slow breath Jack lines up his cock and presses just the tip against Mark’s ass. The reaction is immediate—Mark’s whole body tenses up and he lets out a huge breath, eyes fluttering shut. 

_He’s really into this._ The thought distracts him momentarily and Jack shakes his head to focus, nudging his hips forward until he starts to push inside. It’s tight, incredibly tight, and thanks to the lotion and Mark’s prep the slide is easy, if slow going. Mark moans, low and breathy and wrecked, a continuous, broken up sound that drags out until Jack’s hips are pressed snugly to Mark’s ass. 

As he draws back slowly Jack feels the rising urge to turn Mark into a complete mess, to fuck him hard—as promised—and to make him beg for it. He tamps it down, though, waiting until he’s brushing his groin against Mark’s ass again before he pulls out nearly all the way. 

“Are you ready?” he asks Mark, quiet and sultry. 

Mark’s eye blinks open amidst his mess of hair and he nods jerkily, biting his lip. “C’mon. Hard, do it hard.”

Jack doesn’t say anything else. He simply takes hold of Mark’s hips in both hands, shuffles his legs a bit to get comfortable, and then snaps his hips forward in a brutal thrust, bringing Mark back onto him all the way to the hilt.

Mark’s head snaps up and a harsh cry wrenches out of his throat. He’s even tighter around Jack now but he doesn’t stop or slow, quickly pulling back and repeating the brutal movement again and again, his hips a rough piston.

“Jack,” Mark pleads, mouth gaping in a silent, permanent moan. His face tenses lustfully with each thrust, his breaths jerky and ill-timed around Jack’s motions. 

“What? Say it,” Jack growls, and he feels Mark clench around him as he visibly shivers. 

“P-...please,” the brunet moans, hands fisted in the bedsheets, mirroring Jack’s snug grip on his hips. _It’ll probably bruise_ , he thinks idly, and finds that he likes the idea.

“Please what?” 

Mark doesn’t answer, instead moaning loudly as Jack speeds up, tilting his hips so he’s bearing down on Mark. He can feel Mark’s knees sliding on the bed and he barely pauses long enough to nudge them back into place, wider than before. Mark garbles out a half-moan, half-cry that shudders out of him in tandem with the beat of Jack’s forceful, rabbity thrusts, and Jack knows he’s hitting him deeper than before.

“Is that what you want?” Jack demands, and Mark nods as he pants, nearly gasping for breath. “Tell me.”

“Harder,” Mark groans. His back is bent at an unappealing angle but Mark’s breathy, nearly sobbing moans are promoting a fierce flame within him, burning up his gut and spreading through his chest and loins. Jack groans harshly, bending over Mark’s body as he switches his hard thrusts for deep rolls of his hips, no less rough or fast. 

“Jack, I—” he sighs out on a shaky breath, moaning huskily. Jack feels it through his chest where it’s pressed to Mark’s back and he peppers a few absent bites and kisses across the back of Mark’s neck. 

“You gonna come?” Jack prompts, heart pounding at the thought. He’s not far off, himself, but Jack has enough manners that he puts his partners first. 

Mark gives a tiny nod and immediately Jack is reaching around his hips for his drooling cock, wrapping a hand around it and stroking. It’s unlike his own cock, obviously, but the silky feel of Mark’s skin isn’t dissimilar or repulsive. _Quite the opposite_ , Jack notes as Mark tosses his head back and moans, convulsing around him and coming with a loud, broken cry.

Jack strokes him until he makes a pathetic sound of dismay and moves his hand away, switching back to fucking him with voracity to find his own end. Mark, coming down from his high, trembles around him at the overstimulation and the thought that Jack pushed him past the precipice of pleasure, that he made Mark come, pushes him over too. He empties himself into Mark with jerky, brutal thrusts before finally stilling, dropping heavily over Mark’s back. 

They both catch their breath in the following minute, Mark’s body pulsing around Jack’s softening cock. Gingerly Jack pulls out and flops his spent body to the side, watching Mark collapse onto his belly with a tender noise. 

Jack watches Mark watch him as they lay there basking in the afterglow. After a moment Mark’s lips spread into a weak, extremely satisfied grin and he murmurs, “Now that’s what I call a hard fuck.”

Humming his agreement Jack glances over at the phone on the bedside table before turning his full attention back to Mark. He meets those deep brown eyes and proposes with a wicked, secretive smile, “Room service?” 

Mark chuckles tiredly, shifting over slightly so he can rest his hand on Jack’s chest. Without thinking Jack’s hand comes up to cover it, and he frowns slightly at the motion but doesn’t move. 

With a soft prod of his finger Mark teases him, “No frowning after sex. New rule.”

Helplessly snorting Jack smiles, a crooked and half-assed smile that makes his face feel odd, but when Mark beams back at him he feels... bright, foolishly bright. Maybe there’s something to this “smiling” thing, after all.


End file.
